


Script and Snow

by RosalindInPants



Category: The Great Library Series - Rachel Caine
Genre: Bodyguard Romance, Library mission, M/M, Mystery, Pre-Canon, Snowed In, book retrieval, pre-Rome, trip to russia, young Wolfe and Santi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:34:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23876254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosalindInPants/pseuds/RosalindInPants
Summary: Scholar Christopher Wolfe is sent on a mission with his newly-promoted partner, Captain Niccolo Santi, to retrieve some books discovered by a family of uncooperative Russian nobles. It's an uncommonly bad winter, and the snow hasn't stopped yet. The reported books aren't all where they should be. No one is telling the truth. And then there are the smugglers.
Relationships: Niccolo Santi/Christopher Wolfe
Comments: 14
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

The roads were in poor condition outside of Khabarovsk. It had been a bad winter, from what the local Librarian said, and the less-used roads outside the city walls had been neglected in favor of keeping the city’s streets and rail lines clear of snow. Even with a plow affixed to the lead transport, it was slow going, a journey that should have taken no more than an hour stretching well into the afternoon.

Sitting in the gunner’s seat of the second transport in their little convoy, Scholar Christopher Wolfe used his black fur-lined cloak to wipe fog from the window glass. His view was no less white for the effort. Snowflakes drifted down from thick clouds that hung low in the sky, coating ground and trees in a blanket of frozen white. Far below, the frigid river flowed in streaks of white and gray. They were higher now than they had been the last time he closed his Blank to look, at least halfway up the mountainside by his estimate. Not too much longer to go.

Shivering, Wolfe pulled his cloak tighter around himself. The vehicle redirected excess heat from its boiler to the interior, but it was sorely outmatched by the chill. Wolfe was beginning to regret turning down the blankets he’d been offered back at the Khabarovsk Serapeum.

In the driver’s seat, Captain Niccolo Santi looked unperturbed by the cold. Both gloved hands sat steady on the wheel, and his green eyes focused on the dark bulk of the lead transport ahead of them. He wore the High Garda’s cold-weather uniform, a heavy sand-colored coat and matching insulated trousers that rendered him nearly as pale as the scenery beyond the window. His newly-earned captain’s insignia gleamed gold against the bland backdrop of his coat, a sight that filled Wolfe with pride as warm as Alexandrian sunlight.

Santi spared Wolfe a brief glance before returning his eyes to the road. “How’s it look out there?”

Wolfe shrugged. “I can see China. Nothing else of interest. Don’t think we’ll have a Burner ambush to liven things up this time.”

“No,” Santi agreed, “But I’d feel better if you kept a hand on your rifle, all the same. No telling what kind of welcome our hosts have in store for us.”

“Should have sat in the back. I could have gotten through another chapter,” Wolfe grumbled, but he laid the rifle across his lap all the same. It was a heavy thing, High Garda issue, loaded with lethal rounds.

Learning to fire it had been the work of many evenings at the target range. Pleasant work, really, with Nic behind him, strong arms wrapped around to correct his stance and that lovely Italian-accented voice murmuring directions in his ear. 

To Wolfe’s disappointment, Santi kept his accent under far tighter control while he was on duty. His Greek was nearly unaccented when he asked, “That good of a book?”

“Not to your taste, but yes,” Wolfe replied. Not especially in the mood for conversation, he left it at that, and Santi seemed content to accept the silence.

There was a fragile peace in this time on the road that Wolfe found himself reluctant to disturb. He might not have a moment’s rest once they arrived at their destination, but here there was nothing but the snow and the quiet sounds of the transport. Muffled whispers and shuffling from the soldiers seated in the back. The hiss of the steam engine and the crunch of snow beneath the wheels. Santi’s deep, steady breathing.

The snow was coming down harder now, and Wolfe saw as if looking through a white lace veil in perpetual motion, fleeting glimpses of distant land and dark water. Ahead, the lead transport seemed a mere shadow that flickered before them. The effect was isolating, but peacefully so, as if this washed-out world belonged to him and Nic alone, a space to themselves outside of time and obligation.

He thought the kremlin’s walls no more than tricks of light and snowfall until they were nearly upon them, the lead transport pulling to a stop before the looming expanse of pale stone. The gates, white-painted wood striped with iron bands that made them look all the more like mirages, stood shut. Faint light glowed from the watchtowers to either side, but the lamps outside were unlit despite the growing darkness.

A forecast of the reception they would receive, Wolfe surmised. He could see the same conclusion in the grim set of Santi’s mouth when they turned to face one another.

Once again, he was to play the Stormcrow.

In a routine built over five years of field work together, Wolfe took the Library banner from its place beneath the seat while Santi parked the transport. As one, they slung their rifles over their shoulders and exited the vehicle, meeting in front of it.

Santi bowed. “In your service, Scholar Wolfe.”

“Grateful for it, Captain Santi,” Wolfe said with a nod. He let his lover’s new title linger just a moment on his tongue, savoring the sound of it. “Shall we?”

Wolfe unfurled the banner while they trudged across the hard-packed snow toward the gates, the black fabric as sharp a contrast with the snow as the black of his clothing and the transports. Unlike the soldiers’ sandy uniforms, they were made to stand out and demand notice. The dark color naturally drew the eye to the symbol of the Great Library, rendered in reflective gold paint on banner and transports alike. Wolfe wore it on a smaller scale on the gold bracelet that represented his lifetime appointment as a Scholar.

That symbol marked Wolfe and his party as dedicated servants of knowledge, protected by the full force of the Great Library of Alexandria and all its treaties and accords. It granted passage through any gate and access to any home or city. It announced his mission to collect all original books he might find to be added to the Great Archives, where they would become part of the body of knowledge shared freely with the world.

It did not, however, guarantee him a warm welcome. For all that he believed in the Library and its goals, he’d learned the hard way that many saw the Library’s Scholars as thieves and scavengers. Stormcrows, bringing devastation on their wings and picking through the ruins for valuable scraps. To those whose livelihoods were built on violation of the Library’s accords, he brought ruin, and it was all too likely that those he’d been sent to confront would count themselves among that number.

Behind him, doors slammed and boots hit the ground. Before him, troops formed into orderly lines. Trusting in their protection, Wolfe strode forward, the banner lifted high. Santi fell into step beside him, half a step back, and Wolfe slowed to let his partner take the lead. This was Santi’s first mission as captain of his company. He deserved the honor of taking point.

A fraction of a nod from Santi was all the acknowledgment he got. They couldn’t afford to let sentiment show out here in the field, where enemies might seize on any weakness. That was no matter. Wolfe had the privilege of seeing his partner in all his glory, marching forward wrapped in an aura of command to stand before the kremlin’s gates. Not a hint of hesitance in him. Santi was born to do this, as evidenced by his rapid rise through the ranks of the High Garda. No connections to help him along, just finely-honed skill and strategic genius. Well, perhaps some good fortune, as well - no soldier lived long without a little luck. Wolfe could only pray that luck would continue to hold.

In a voice that could carry across the broad expanse of the High Garda training grounds back in Alexandria, Santi shouted, “Open in the name of the Library!” 

The company’s translator, a young recruit whose name Wolfe couldn’t recall, repeated the statement in both Russian and Chinese. This close to the border, most could speak both languages, and Greek was widely spoken thanks to the Library’s influence, but the Library took no chances. There would be no opportunity for their target to claim to have misunderstood.

They waited. Not so long as Wolfe had been made to wait on the worst of his missions, but long enough to feel the cold sink into his toes and to feel the wind pierce through the thin protection of his scarf to bite at his face.

Without warning, the gate shuddered, creaked. It opened toward them, slowed by the snowdrifts, to reveal a courtyard lit by glows. Armed guards lined the way, dressed in red and gold uniforms of Russian design. Two figures, indistinct in the snowfall, waited straight ahead.

It was a deathtrap. Wolfe knew enough of strategy to recognize that. The gates might be opening slowly, but no snow would block their closing. There was no telling how many more guards might wait within, how many might be crouching on the walls or lurking behind the watchtowers’ narrow windows. Santi’s half century of High Garda troops were formidable fighters, but a larger force with the advantage of fortification could overcome them.

Walking through those gates would be a gamble, but it always was, and Wolfe liked the odds this time. This was no war zone, where one side might get away with blaming the other for the deaths of Library personnel in the chaos. In this isolated place, foul play would be all too obvious, and there would be no escape from the Library’s retribution. The Great Library had wiped entire countries from the map. This tiny, isolated kremlin would be nothing.

As one, Wolfe and Santi stepped forward. The troops fell into formation around them without so much as a word from Santi. They’d trained for this; they knew the procedure. Library-uniformed bodies formed a barrier between Wolfe and the lines of guards, making him a spot of black between stripes of tan and red. Without hesitation, they would give their lives to protect him and all he represented. He sincerely hoped it wouldn’t come to that. If their hosts had so much as a drop of sense, it wouldn’t come to that. His heart pounded against his ribs all the same.

Though it had been designed in the traditional style of the great Russian kremlins, this fortress was small, with only a handful of buildings within the walls. An onion-domed chapel to the left, a cluster of workshops and servants’ quarters to the right, and the main residence ahead, its gilded adornments proclaiming its owners’ wealth.

At the bottom of the steps leading up to the home’s ornately carved doors, a man and a woman waited. Both wore fur coats extravagant enough for royalty, with guarded expressions on their pale faces. As Wolfe and Santi drew near, the man stepped forward. He was the younger of the two, in his forties, perhaps, with eyes the blue of winter skies.

Giving a stiff and shallow bow, he said in heavily-accented Greek, “Welcome, Scholar. We are honored to extend our hospitality to any representative of the Great Library, though I must confess that your arrival comes as a surprise. To what do we owe the honor of your visit?” His scowl made it evident how little he was pleased to have the honor of hosting a Scholar of the Great Library.

“Baron Novikov, I presume?” Wolfe stepped forward to meet him, taking out his Codex and flipping it open with hands made clumsy by thick gloves.

The loud rap of the old woman’s bronze-tipped cane against the cobblestones stopped him short before he could present the Library’s search warrant. Coming to stand beside the baron, she offered a deep bow. “Pardon my intrusion, honored Scholar, but surely introductions can wait until we’re all out of the cold,” she said. There was real warmth to her voice, a welcome contrast with the baron’s hard edges. “Come, Scholar, let us warm ourselves with coffee while you tell us of your business. We have supplies enough to offer refreshment to your guards as well.”

The baron’s frown deepened, but he gave a sharp nod. “Yes, of course. I will send word to the kitchens.” He turned on his heel and stalked up the stairs. 

Some disagreement between the two of them, then. Interesting.

Wolfe offered his arm to the old woman, as was only polite, but she shook her head with a smile and started up the stairs, leaning heavily on her cane but clearly quite capable of making it on her own.

More than ready to be out of the snow, Wolfe followed. Behind him, boots thumped on the cobblestones, and he knew without having to look that Santi had signaled his orders to their half-century of troops. He could trust them to do their duty.

Whether he could trust the Novikovs to do the same remained to be seen.


	2. Chapter 2

**EPHEMERA**

**From a weather report published in the Khabarovsk Times**

Record snowfall is expected as the storm continues into the early hours of morning. We may see more snow tonight than we usually have in a year. Temperatures are expected to plunge overnight.

Residents are advised to remain indoors. The risk of frostbite is severe even with brief exposure. Prolonged exposure will result in death.

Steam carriages will be inoperable in these conditions. Snow removal will not commence until temperatures increase.

* * *

The Russians brewed a good cup of coffee. It wasn’t spiced like the Alexandrian coffee Wolfe favored, and it certainly wasn’t up to the standards of anything Santi could brew, but it was hot and strong and fortifying, which was exactly what Wolfe needed. It made listening to Baron Dominik Novikov’s litany of excuses at least a little less tedious. 

Wolfe cared very little about the Novikov family’s ongoing renovations. Had there been any real effort to uncover or preserve the history of the place, that might have made for interesting conversation, but these were people who adorned themselves with history as if it were jewelry. They claimed descent from Catherine the Great, of course, and in much the same manner, they claimed their kremlin was built atop the ruins of Khabarov's Achansk, one of the earliest fortified settlements in the region. The latter had become more than a decorative name to them only when the expansion of their cellars uncovered, purely by accident, what might have been a piece of the real ruin.

On that point, Wolfe reserved his judgment. He’d reviewed the evidence for the most probable locations of the centuries-old ruin, and this was not one of them. More likely, Novikov’s workers had found something far more recent, although perhaps equally valuable, depending on the content of the books they’d found there. It would, at least, be interesting to examine the site along with the books themselves.

Whatever might rest beneath them, this richly-appointed parlor looked far too clean to have any real history behind it. Everything from the dark wood furniture to the gilded adornments on the walls was done in the classical styles of the great tsars, but there was not so much as a chip in the paint or a scuff in the wood. It spoke of recently acquired wealth, a point of evidence that Wolfe filed away for later consideration.

He’d been given the best seat in the room, a well-padded armchair near enough to the fire to be almost warm. Santi and his two lieutenants had seats by the fire as well, though the lower-ranking soldiers had to take their refreshments in the barracks with the household guards. In a well-coordinated display, Wolfe had thanked the baron for providing so generously for his soldiers and granted them all leave to go, while Santi insisted on the basis of propriety that a squad stay on duty.

It was a dance they’d done before, one that tended to produce useful results. Santi looked paranoid, Wolfe fearless, and with the veteran soldiers of the Blue Dogs stationed along the walls of the room, they would be safe enough from ambush. Should it prove necessary, any number of moves might follow from such an opening.

But first, they would allow the Novikovs their move. The baron and his mother, the Baronessa Agata Novikov, sat at opposite ends of a couch across from Wolfe. The baron frowned as he looked down at the jewel-encrusted Codex that sat open on the table, displaying the warrant that Wolfe had transferred to it.

“I’m afraid that the servant who sent the report must have been overly excited at the sight of original books,” the baron said, pausing to squint at the number on the page. “Overjoyed as I would be to have stumbled upon so great a treasure, our find was not nearly so impressive.”

“You must understand, Scholar,” the baronessa said, “The lower classes here do not devote themselves to education as Alexandrians do. I doubt they truly understood what they saw.” If the condescension in her words got any thicker, it would have dripped from her mouth.

Wolfe took a long sip of coffee to forestall a condescending remark of his own. Reprehensible as he found these provincial nobles who held learning beyond the reach of commoners and then mocked them for their ignorance, he had a job to do. The search would be easier with their cooperation than without it. “Certainly,” he said, lowering his cup to its saucer. “Nonetheless, the Library’s covenants bind us to respond to the report that we received, regardless of its accuracy. If you cannot produce the reported books, I will have no choice but to conduct a thorough search of the premises and interview all members of your household. I am certain you understand the importance of ruling out the possibility of smuggling.”

He let the word roll lightly off his tongue and sat back while the Novikovs attempted to conceal their fear. The accusation of smuggling was no idle threat. Even in this remote corner of Russia, where most crimes were punished by hard labor rather than death, those convicted of book smuggling would face execution. The methods used tended to be gruesome even by Alexandrian standards, and families of the accused were often stripped of titles and property.

Baron Novikov wrapped his fear in bluster, glaring daggers at Wolfe as he said, “Surely such drastic measures are unnecessary. We are, as I said, in the midst of renovations and planning my son’s wedding besides. Do you really propose to tear my home apart and harass my family and staff over some fool’s report?”

“Had you filed a report of your own in a timely manner, as is your obligation under the law, this might not be necessary,” Santi said mildly. He glanced to the lieutenant seated to his left, a hard-edged Russian man with a jagged scar across his cheek. Santi’s second for the mission, taking the place of Zara Cole, who to Wolfe’s great relief had been left back in Alexandria in command of the remainder of the company. “Lieutenant Ivanov, would you be so kind as to send a copy of the Russian-language report form to Baron Novikov’s Codex?”

The lieutenant gave a sharp nod. He took out his Codex, a simple but well-crafted leather bound book, and with a few strokes of the attached stylus, he transferred the form.

“Thank you, Captain, Lieutenant,” Baronessa Novikov said with affected warmth. Hiding her fear beneath a calm facade, but not perfectly. Wolfe could see the tension in her perfectly manicured hands, clasped tightly in her lap. “I assure you, the delay was only because we intended to wait until we had conducted a thorough search of the cellars. We planned to deliver the books to the Serapeum personally once we were certain no more were hidden. We will, of course, do everything in our power to assist in your investigation, won’t we, Dominik?”

“Yes, certainly. We must preserve the family name, after all.” The baron looked right at his mother as he spoke, some unspoken message passing between them. Something tense, but not new, Wolfe thought with an odd twinge of sympathy. He understood how mothers could be. 

Whatever measure of congeniality Wolfe might have felt passed as the baron turned back to him with a thin smile that looked as genuine as the room’s antique furnishings. “You’ll want to get right to work, I assume, Scholar? There is time yet before dinner.”

Wolfe needed no further invitation. Meeting the baron’s frosty smile with one of his own, he rose from his seat. “Yes. I will start with the books. If you would be so kind as to show us the way?”

Only because he was looking closely did he catch the flash of apprehension on the baron’s face. There and gone. Very interesting, indeed. He cast a glance at the baronessa, still seated and holding her cup up for a servant to refill, but her expression betrayed nothing. If she had secrets, she concealed them better than her son.

Baron Novikov led the way out of the room, and Wolfe moved to join him at a brisk enough pace to allow his black silk Scholar’s robe to flare out behind him. This was the sort of place where one ought to make an impression. Santi and his troops fell into line behind him, and they left Baronessa Agata Novikov in the parlor, quietly sipping from her steaming cup.


	3. Chapter 3

A glance at the title page of the first book was enough to tell Wolfe that the Novikovs had not, in fact, uncovered the ruins of Khabarov's Achansk. The baron stood behind Wolfe, blathering about how he thought the Chinese texts they’d found must have been from the Chinese supply caravan captured during the failed attack on the Russian fortress, but all he was accomplishing was making it very clear that he could not read a word of Chinese. Scholar Cao Xueqin had not even been born on the date of that battle, let alone written  _ Dream of the Red Chamber _ . Ignoring him, Wolfe paged through the manuscript. It was a well-preserved copy, made with high-quality parchment and ink and written in the neat hand of a skilled scribe. Though it lacked the beauty of the calligraphy copy available through the Codex, there was surely a Serapeum somewhere in China that would be glad to receive an original of one of the Four Classic Novels. The one he’d visited last year with Nic didn’t have a copy, if he remembered right.

Wolfe took out his Codex and sent a quick note to the Archivist before clipping a tag to the book and sending it to the Archives. As many times as he’d done this, he barely even felt the pull on his quintessence. Just a slight numbing of his fingers when he activated the tag. Sending all of the books stacked on the reading room table would leave him a little tired, but he could manage.

A muffled noise of surprise made him look up. Across the table, the baron’s younger son, Mika Novikov, gaped at him. With golden curls and a face still rounded by baby fat, the boy looked every bit the precious darling of the family that he no doubt was, but there was an intelligence in his blue eyes that Wolfe couldn’t help but like. They’d found the child already in the reading room, his nose in a Blank, studiously ignoring the guards who kept watch over the chest of originals. If only the father showed half as much interest in learning as the son.

“Was that an important one, then?” Mika asked, staring at the place where the book had been.

“Hm? You might say that. A Chinese classic,” Wolfe said, returning his attention to the stack of books. The next one was Chinese as well. A technical work on shipbuilding, quite old. Wolfe opened his Codex to search for the title.

“So it was from the supply caravan, then?” Baron Novikov asked, not waiting for an answer before barreling onward to address his son. “You see,  Mishka , I told you we had found an important piece of history. You see-”

With a sigh, Wolfe looked over his shoulder at the baron, fixing him with a glare that made his flapping jaw snap closed. It was one thing to ignore the idiot’s delusional babbling, but another entirely to allow him to mislead a child. Especially in such a patronizing tone. “Indeed. You have provided substantial evidence that you do not, in fact, reside upon the site of Khabarov's Achansk. Our historians will be glad of the opportunity to rule this location out and focus their efforts on likelier sites.”

The baron’s eyes narrowed. “Quite the discovery. You work quickly, don’t you?”

“I do. It is a virtue we  _ all  _ should cultivate, don’t you think?” With that pointed remark, Wolfe turned back to the books.

He intended to ignore the Russians entirely, but he couldn’t help overhearing Mika say, “See, Father? I told you it was  _ Dream of the Red Chamber _ .”

“He didn’t say that it was. Quiet, now, the Scholar is working.”

Even without looking up from the task of tagging the book, Wolfe could feel the boy’s sullen glare. Poor thing, not quite the age to be a Postulant and probably already the smartest one in the house. While he examined the next book, a poorly crafted copy of a Russian history common enough that he could locate its Codex entry half asleep, Wolfe wondered if Baronessa Agata might be amenable to the suggestion of buying her grandson a Library placement.

The baron was a lost cause, of course. Just to annoy the man, Wolfe started narrating his discoveries. Santi, picking up on the joke, kept up the other end of the conversation, holding a straight face and a serious tone all the while. No small feat, considering that one title was a Russian translation of a rather notorious work of erotica. There was a sudden bout of coughing among the Blue Dogs at that one, but no reaction from the Novikovs. Either the baron had a poker face to match Santi’s, or he hadn’t looked all that closely at the books. 

Mika, presumably, hadn’t been permitted to do any reading. The longing on his face as Wolfe recorded and tagged each manuscript was all too familiar. If not for the watching baron, Wolfe might have been tempted to take his time with a few of the books himself. There was a rather prettily written edition of the Tao Te Ching in the stack, and an intricately illustrated book of Russian folklore. He might just put in a request to borrow them when he got back to Alexandria, assuming neither was sent to a foreign Serapeum. Both were outside his usual field of study, but almost every Scholar he knew borrowed the occasional original for curiosity or pleasure reading. Even the Archivist himself was known to appreciate illuminated manuscripts; the detailing never came through right when they were mirrored.

Most of the books, though, were nothing so impressive. The majority of the stack consisted of the sorts of poorly-made copies of classic texts that smugglers sold to collectors with more money than knowledge. Their leather covers were fine enough, if somewhat aged, but the handwriting within was often clumsy, and Wolfe suspected that the Archivist’s team assigned to study them would find errors and flaws rendering the books useless as anything more than training materials for Postulants.

By the time he’d tagged and sent the last of them, Wolfe was tired, hungry, mildly nauseous, and utterly lacking in the patience required to follow through with his earlier agreement to dine with the baron. Casting a meaningful look at Santi, he let himself sway as he stood. Not entirely an act; he really did feel a little lightheaded from the drain of the tags. 

Santi was at his side a moment later, offering an arm to steady him. Wolfe accepted the assistance gladly; the opportunity to lean on his highly attractive partner in the course of a mission was a rare thing, not to be squandered.

“Are you quite all right, Scholar?” Baron Novikov asked, in a tone that made it clear he rather hoped to be answered in the negative.

“Yes, thank you,” Wolfe said. “A momentary side effect of the tagging process, nothing more. I will manage.”

Santi shook his head with a frown of disapproval. “He needs to rest. You said a guest room was being prepared, Baron Novikov?”

“That really isn’t nece-” Wolfe began, taking a step away from the table and interrupting himself with a well-timed stumble that conveniently left him leaning even harder on Santi.

Raising his eyebrows, Santi gave him an assessing look, though he didn’t say a word. It would be a violation of protocol to openly argue with Wolfe; within the hierarchy of the Great Library, a soldier could hold authority over a Scholar only during transportation and combat. In truth, things were far more fluid between them, but there were appearances to be maintained.

Wolfe sighed, playing the Scholar impatient with his own limitations. “Oh, all right. I suppose a short rest couldn’t hurt.”

He didn’t miss the way the baron watched him with interest at this admission of weakness. Like a snake with prey in sight. 

Whatever the baron’s answer might have been, his son cut it off, coming around the table to ask with childish enthusiasm, “May I show the Scholar to his room, Father?” Seeing his father’s growing frown he added, “You’re always saying I should be more attentive to guests.”

The baron gave the sort of demonstrative sigh that Wolfe remembered rather unfavorably from the staff in the orphanage where he’d been raised after his rejection from the Iron Tower. “Yes. You may. Take them directly there with no detours. I will expect you at dinner promptly.”

“Yes, sir, of course,” Mika said, bowing as he turned toward Wolfe. “Please, honored Scholar, this way.”


	4. Chapter 4

Mika Novikov was all prim manners heading out of the reading room, but as soon as they'd climbed to the third floor, he turned to face Wolfe. Voice pitched low, he asked, "It was  _ Dream of the Red Chamber _ , wasn't it?"

“Yes,” Wolfe said absently, his attention drawn by the large windows that lined one wall of the hallway. Beyond them, the snow continued to fall, taking on a greenish tinge as it caught the light of the glows that shone through the windows 

Taking full advantage of his feigned weakness, he leaned his head on Santi’s shoulder for a better view. Through the dark and the snow, he could just make out the glows of the kremlin’s watchtowers, three of them visible from this vantage point.

“Feeling faint from the climb, Scholar? Here, sit a moment,” Santi said, guiding Wolfe to sit on the wide window sill. 

Mika and the Blue Dogs, who’d been unfortunate enough to be assigned to guard duty rather than dinner, stopped where they stood, waiting. The soldiers took a professional stance while Mika shifted from one foot to the other, looking uneasy.

The chill so close to the glass was bad enough that Wolfe thought his back might freeze if he sat there too long. It wouldn’t have been so bad with Nic’s arms around him, but they were on duty. Santi remained standing, one hand on Wolfe’s shoulder while he looked down at Wolfe with an expression their young host would doubtless see as professional concern.

It made an excellent cover for Santi to get the lay of the land. The window gave a good view of the kremlin’s grounds, a patchwork of light and shadow with glows spaced out on posts along the pathways making a feeble attempt to drive back the night. Santi’s people had moved the armored transports in while Wolfe worked, and they appeared to have finished unpacking the company’s gear as well. Nothing moved but the snow, already blanketing the transports and their tracks. Stillness on the walls as well.

Wolfe knew better than to mistake that stillness for tranquility. It reminded him of the stillness on a battlefield before the attack, when both sides held their breaths, hoping the inevitable might yet be averted. It never was.

From the corner of his eye, he could see Mika Novikov, standing with his hands behind his back a few steps from where they sat. He’d taken a posture of noble aloofness, but the compassion of his face looked genuine when he asked, “Is there anything I can do, Scholar?”

“No, thank you,” Wolfe said. “I’ve caught my breath. Come, Captain, let us be on our way.”

Santi helped Wolfe to his feet, and they resumed their walk down the hall, the Blue Dogs falling in behind them.

A few paces ahead, Mika said, with a note of petulance, “I do know some remedies for fainting. I help Mother all the time.”

The boy was clearly accustomed to not being taken seriously. Spoiled, but dismissed as unimportant by the adults around him. Wolfe knew the feeling. For years he’d been his mother’s darling disappointment.

But there was no use in thinking of that now. Sympathy was a useless sentiment on a mission. Understanding, though, could be useful. “You help your mother, do you? Is she ill?” he asked. The boy’s father had mentioned something to that effect over coffee, now that he thought of it.

A brief silence before Mika answered, “Yes. She’s prone to spells of fainting. The doctor says she has a weak constitution.”

_ A doctor. Might as well be putting leeches on her. _ Wolfe had only the most basic training in field medicine - a necessity of working in war zones and loving a soldier - but it wouldn’t even take that much to recognize  _ that _ diagnosis as unscientific nonsense. 

Santi saved him from making an ass of himself by saying so. In a warmer tone than he’d taken thus far with the Novikovs, Santi said, “That sounds unpleasant. She’s fortunate to have such a caring son.”

Wolfe took the hint. “Indeed. What sorts of remedies have you found helpful?”

“The smelling salts usually bring her around. Lying down also does her good, and there’s a tea-” Mika stopped.

They’d reached the end of the hall, where a set of double doors dominated the wall, tall enough to make even Santi look small.

“Your rooms, Scholar Wolfe,” Mika said, pulling the doors open.

Even at a glance through the doorway, the suite was clearly the family’s best guest room. Decorated in gilt and velvet, with large windows and doors leading to at least two additional rooms, it looked worthy of the Archivist himself.

If the Novikovs thought the opulence would earn Wolfe’s favor or distract him from his mission, they were in for a great deal of disappointment.

Santi paused in the doorway, directing soldiers to enter first in accordance with standard security procedure. It wasn’t likely that any traps or ambushes awaited, but one couldn’t be too certain. They’d learned that the hard way. Only after the soldiers signaled the all-clear did Wolfe and Santi enter, making for a couch in front of the fire.

“Will you need anything else? The smelling salts, maybe?” Mika asked. Standing against one of the open doors, he peered into the room, a small frown on his face. His eyes caught on something, and he scurried for one of the side rooms, calling over his shoulder, “Oh! I know! I have just the thing!”

Wolfe let himself sink into the velvet cushions, watching the door the boy had disappeared through with mild interest. For a blatant display of wealth, the couch was quite comfortable. It sat close to the hearth, and Santi pushed it even closer, close enough that Wolfe could lift his hands and feel his fingers starting to thaw.

Behind him, he heard Santi giving his orders to the Blue Dogs in a hushed voice. Wolfe knew what they would be without having to make the effort of listening. Two to stand guard outside the room. Patrols along the halls. One or two at the hall windows, probably. Santi would want eyes on the grounds and walls. None within the suite. The risk was not so high as to merit such an invasion of privacy. Santi offered protection enough all on his own that drastic measures rarely proved necessary.

Mika Novikov emerged from the other room with a padded footstool, nearly running into one of the departing soldiers as he hurried over to place it in what little space remained between the couch and the low table in front of it. “Here, Scholar, you should put your feet up. It always helps Mother when she feels faint.”

That was hardly necessary, but something in Mika’s expression kept Wolfe from saying so. He lifted his feet, allowing the boy to push the stool beneath them.

Looking at Wolfe with urgent intensity, his curls like molten gold in the firelight, Mika whispered, “That wasn’t all of the books.” The moment the words were past his lips, he jumped back as if he’d put his bare hands into the fire. “There. Keep your feet up until you feel better. I’ll tell the cook to send your dinner up.” He backed away, speaking with the loud, nervous voice of a child in trouble. As soon as he reached the door, he whirled around and ran.


	5. Chapter 5

“Well,” Santi said, watching Mika’s velvet-clad back disappear down the hall. “That was interesting.” He waved the last of the soldiers out of the room and closed the door behind them “Care for a drink?”

“Please.” Wolfe let his head fall against the couch’s padded back. It gave him an excellent view of the chandelier. The symmetrical arrangement of its crystal-encased glows was pleasing to the eye, if somewhat excessive.

Glassware chimed, liquid splashed, and soft footsteps padded across the carpet. A shadow fell over Wolfe, blocking out the light with the far more appealing vision of mossy green eyes and a sly smile curling into stubble-flecked cheeks. That smile announced that he’d cast away the serious mask of Captain Niccolo Santi, decorated High Garda officer. The man looking down at Wolfe now was the man he’d come to know as the real Nic. A Nic all Wolfe’s own, who bent down to place a teasing kiss on Wolfe’s lips while he passed over a drink.

Nic straightened to lift his own glass. “Za vas.”

The clear liquid in the little crystal glass caught the light of the chandelier and seemed to absorb that luminescence. “Vodka. Trying to seduce me already, are you?”

Unrepentant, Nic’s grin widened. “Would it work?” 

He’d already undone the top button of his jacket, Wolfe noticed. There was nothing to see but his shirt; the Russian chill required layers. That didn’t stop Wolfe’s eyes from lingering.

Wolfe licked his lips and raised an eyebrow. “Za vas.”

The formal Russian toast had become an intimate one between the two of them. It was the first they’d shared, and that gave it a personal history that was precious to Wolfe. That memory kindled as much heat in his stomach as the burn of the vodka.

Rather than come around to sit, as Wolfe had hoped he would, Nic retreated, forcing Wolfe to crane his neck to see his partner examining cut crystal decanters and painted porcelain jars on a sideboard. Nic lifted the lid of a jar. “Shall we do it properly and have cucumbers with the next round?”

Catching a vinegary whiff of the brine from the jar, Wolfe grimaced, his stomach turning. “No.”

Nic shrugged and crunched on a few slices before wandering toward the open door to the next room, vodka bottle and glass in hand. He disappeared through the door, but his low whistle drifted back into the sitting room. “Now  _ that _ is a bed.” A moment later, “And you should see the size of this bath.”

Wolfe watched the gilded hands of the clock on the mantle tick another minute before Nic’s head poked back out through the door. “Not even a little curious?” His dark eyebrows drew together, and he came back into the sitting room, walking slowly enough to make it obvious that his casual stroll was an act.

“Oh, don’t start. I’m fine,” Wolfe said with a dismissive wave. He held up his glass. “But I’ll need another drink or two before I’m ready to contemplate sleeping on a bed of gold like a dragon upon its hoard.”

“It’s much softer than that,” Nic said, perching on the arm of the couch. Resting one booted foot on the velvet couch cushion, he leaned in to refill Wolfe’s glass. “Piles of pillows, furs… On both beds.” Nic said it with a straight face, but his eyes glittered with amusement.

With a bark of laughter, Wolfe raised his glass in toast, “To me being right, as usual.”

It had become something of a game between them to predict how they would be perceived on missions together. In Alexandria it was common knowledge by now that they were lovers, but each new destination presented the opportunity to place their bets on whether anyone would see through their on-duty professionalism. Usually, it was their preference in accommodations that gave them away. High Garda officers did not typically share bedrooms with Scholars under their protection.

They might avoid the risk of detection entirely by nominally maintaining separate quarters, but what would be the fun in that? Life was more enjoyable with a bit of risk. Save for a rare few locations where local traditions would demand more circumspect behavior, there was no harm in being found out. Both their superiors knew, and prominent voices in the Library held that love between soldier and Scholar made both more effective in the field.

So they’d made their predictions on the drive, and Wolfe had delighted in the struggle to keep a straight face when discussing accommodations with the baronessa. She’d been scandalized at Santi’s insistence that he would sleep in Wolfe’s room rather than a guest room of his own, not because she drew the correct conclusion about their relationship, but because sleeping in a servant’s bed was beneath the dignity of a High Garda captain. When Santi remained firm in his refusal of a room, Agata Novikov had declared that the servant’s bed in Wolfe’s room would be made up with their best furs and linens. Not just a lie to maintain appearances, apparently.

Chuckling, Nic poured himself another shot. “To you being right,” he acknowledged.

They drank, and while the vodka smoldered in his stomach, Wolfe asked, “Whatever shall we do with two beds? One for sleeping and the other for…” He raised an eyebrow suggestively.

“The servant’s bed is too small for that.”

“We’ve made do with your bed at the barracks, haven’t we?”

“Not anymore. I found time to order furniture after signing the papers on the house yesterday. There’ll be a much bigger bed waiting for us when we get home,” Nic said, pouring himself another shot.

Wolfe held his glass out for a refill. This was an occasion for a proper toast, so he lifted the glass and said, “To your new house, dear Nic. May the floors remain solid, the roof remain dry, and the bed prove resilient to our vigorous and frequent use of it.”

Nic shook his head. “To  _ our _ new house. My invitation stands. I’d like you to share it with me.”

_ Not this again _ . Wolfe had thought he gave a clear enough answer last time Nic brought the subject up. And the time before that. Rolling his eyes, Wolfe downed his shot. “You needn’t talk like I’m some beggar on the street. I have an apartment.”

“You hate your apartment.”

He did, with its narrow window and its noisy neighbors and its strange smells from the laboratories below. He hated Nic almost as much for pointing it out.

“I hate everything. You know that. I don’t hear you complaining when you stay over.”

Nic smiled, and the sight of it was almost enough to make Wolfe forgive him. Damn the man for having such a handsome face, and the vodka for making it so hard to look away. “You keep me far too busy to complain when I stay over,” Nic said with a laugh. “But you have to admit it would be easier. No more forgetting whose room you’ve left a shirt in. No need to decide where we’ll meet after work. Coffee waiting for you every morning.”

It was an infuriatingly appealing picture, one Wolfe could see even as he glared into the fire. “What’s next?” he snapped. “A wedding? An adopted brood of children? I’m not that kind of man, Niccolo.”

The only answer Nic gave to that was a heavy sigh. Wolfe watched a log crumble to glowing embers. He heard the splash of liquid and a gulp, and his hand tightened on his own empty glass. Another shot would be a terrible idea. Already, his head was full of fog and his nerves scraped raw. The embers in the fireplace glowed too bright, as if they could burn out his eyes. He’d have downed the rest of the bottle if he’d had it.

“I know that,” Nic said, sounding very far away, though he hadn’t moved from the couch. “I’m not asking you to change. I just want you to know that you have a place with me. Always.”

Feeling like the air itself weighed heavily on him, Wolfe let out a long breath. “Oh, stop it. I’ll keep warming your bed as much as you’d like. You know that. But you also know what an insufferable bastard I can be. We’ll both be glad for my apartment when I aggravate you into throwing me out.”

The couch cushions dipped as Nic slid down from the arm of the couch onto the seat. Wolfe kept his eyes on the fire. He could feel Nic beside him like an itch on his skin, one he couldn’t decide whether to ignore or indulge in scratching.

“Christopher,  _ cuore mio _ …” Nic’s voice had gone all soft and gentle, making it all too obvious where his thoughts were going. His arm wrapped around the back of the couch behind Wolfe, not yet touching, but offering his embrace. “I swear to you, I would never do that. I know you’ve-”

A knock at the door cut Nic off before he could bring up the Iron Tower or the orphanage, saving Wolfe from having to decide whether to shove him away or melt into his arms. No easy choice with the vodka coursing through his blood and muddling his thoughts.

“The young Baronessa Tanya Novikov here to see you, sir,” one of the soldiers called out. “She has your dinner.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, look at that, I'm posting another chapter. Life has been interesting in a way that results in reduced writing time. Sorry for the delay. I will refrain from promising anything even vaguely resembling a regular update schedule. There will be more of this, but it will get done whenever it gets done.

Tall, thin, and very pale, Tanya Novikov bore a strong resemblance to her father, which immediately predisposed Wolfe to dislike her. That effect was only mildly countered by the highly appealing aroma of the tray of food she carried. She strode right past Santi, who had jumped to his feet at the knock, and deposited the tray on the table in front of the couch, lifting the cover with a flourish of a bow.

Though no doubt missing some of the more extravagant dishes the baron would have served at his table, the large tray still contained an impressive spread. Steaming bowls of soup, pelmeni, generous portions of caviar, small pies, and freshly baked bread overflowed from an assortment of dishes. Two portions of everything, Wolfe noticed, and two sets of cutlery.

“You should eat the  _ solyanka  _ if nothing else, Scholar,” Tanya said in Greek much better than her father’s. “It is very nutritious. Good for restoring your constitution. Of course, if you are recovered, I would recommend the caviar for a more romantic meal.” She took a seat on the armchair next to the couch, crossing her legs at the knees and regarding Wolfe with mild amusement.

Wolfe’s vodka-clouded mind was decidedly not up to the task of determining whether Tanya was flirting with him or making an observation on his relationship with Santi. He’d never been good at this sort of thing in the first place. Heated as the conversation had been before Tanya’s intrusion, it was all too possible that their faces betrayed some blush or other sign that might be read. But Tanya would hardly be the first young noble to see a visiting Scholar as a suitable partner for a tryst.

“What?” Tanya said before Wolfe could come up with a suitable response. “We are not all old-fashioned idiots like my grandmother. You share your bed with your captain, Scholar.”

Did she expect congratulations for that brilliant deduction? She would have to be disappointed. Or perhaps she thought to blackmail him with something that amounted to common knowledge. “It must be terribly dull out here for my sleeping arrangements to provoke such deep fascination,” Wolfe said.

Tanya shrugged. “It is no matter to me. I am much more interested in the work that you do. Please, Captain, sit, do not mind me. Both of you, eat.” She waved a hand toward the food. “Do you think I hauled all of this up from the kitchens for nothing?”

Taking a seat at a polite distance from Wolfe on the couch, Santi speared a  _ pelmeni  _ on his fork and said, “What  _ did  _ you bring it up for? I thought you had servants for that.”

That was an excellent question, and Wolfe couldn’t help but feel a prickle of irritation that Nic had been the one to think of it first. Gods, the vodka was hitting hard. To counter it, he scooped up a spoonful of soup. A touch too salty for his taste, but it contained a generous chunk of beef that melted in his mouth.

“A visiting Scholar is a rare curiosity in these parts,” Tanya said. “And I must confess that I am starved for entertainment. Tell me, Scholar, how did you like the books?”

Wolfe swallowed another mouthful of soup and dabbed his lips with his napkin. “The Great Library treasures all knowledge, baronessa. The originals that I have recovered are precious additions to the Great Archives.”

Tanya waved dismissively at that. “Come now, spare me the lectures. I have heard it all from my tutors. But these books, Father would not let me see them, and I heard the most fantastical rumors from the servants. Were there really one hundred of them?”

“If there were, then seventy-eight of them have gone missing,” Wolfe said with a snort of laughter.

Santi shot him a warning look, and he glared back. His tongue had loosened a bit much with that remark - damned vodka - but he’d hardly revealed anything of consequence.

An odd look crossed Tanya’s face, no doubt in reaction to the tension she saw between Wolfe and Santi, and she said, at touch too brightly, “Well, that is a relief. I am glad to know that my ancestors were not so egregious of criminals as the rumors said. Twenty-two books. Why, that could be an accident, could it not?”

“That cannot be determined without a full investigation,” Wolfe said, returning to the Library-approved script and wishing he hadn’t when he saw the approving look on Santi’s face. Santi probably thought he was too drunk. Wolfe could think of a few places Santi might shove his worrying.

“Yes. Yes, of course. I understand,” Tanya said. She went quiet at that, but she made no motion to leave.

Intensely aware of being watched while he ate, Wolfe stirred his soup, nudging the saltier pickles toward the side of his bowl to scoop up a chunk of sausage, which he ate with all the elegance his drunk and exhausted body could muster. Nourishment did help counter the effects of the translation tags; he couldn’t deny that he felt steadier with meat in his stomach. Santi, without a hint of self-consciousness, sampled everything from the tray and remarked more than once on the cook’s skill.

“Ah, yes, the  _ pirozhki  _ were very good tonight, weren’t they?” Tanya said with a smile in response to one such comment. “You should have seen how many my little brother ate. You met Mika, did you not?”

Santi nodded, his mouth full of meat pie.

“He was kind enough to bring us here from the reading room,” Wolfe added. “He seems to be a good, studious boy.”

Tanya laughed, high and melodious. “That is an understatement. He is never without a book in front of his face, our Mika. And you should have seen him when they found the books. He would not stop whining until Grandmother let him have a look, and then he would not shut up about them. There was this one… oh, what was it? I am not so good at Chinese…”

“ _ Dream of the Red Chamber? _ ” Wolfe suggested. “Or was it the  _ Tao Te Ching? _ ”

With an expression that looked strangely like relief, Tanya said, “Yes. I think that was it.  _ The Red Chamber _ , yes. He argued with Father about it. It was a valuable one, was it not? I am glad that it has been returned to the Great Archives.”

Something in the way she said “valuable” sat badly with Wolfe. The book was, of course, one of great value, but he couldn’t shake the suspicion that the young woman meant not its value as a literary classic, but its monetary value.  _ Nobles _ . As bad as smugglers, in their way. And highly likely to patronize such criminals.

“ _ All _ knowledge is  _ valuable _ , baronessa,” he snapped. “It is fortunate that  _ all  _ of the books have been added to the Great Archives. Or at least, let us hope that is the case, for your family's sake.”

He watched her face for some sign of guilt, but if she showed any, he was too intoxicated to catch it. She rolled her eyes and stood. “Yes, yes, so you have said. I apologize, Scholar, Captain, I am intruding upon your meal and your rest. I will leave you to it. A good night to you both.” She departed, throwing the doors of the room open and stalking away down the hall without so much as a word to the soldier who scrambled to catch the doors.

“All right, sir?” the soldier asked.

“Yes, thank you, Sergeant Bradley,” Santi said, and motioned for her to close the door. As soon as the latch clicked shut, he slumped back against the couch with a sigh.

Wolfe, freed from the need to feign infirmity, pushed the bowl of soup back on the tray and stabbed his fork into a meat pie, unleashing a cloud of fragrant steam. The first bite of it was almost too good, buttery crust and well-seasoned filling. Certainly more pleasant to have another bite than to talk, but Nic was looking at him expectantly, so he said, “Oh, don’t start. I scared her off, I know.”

Nic shrugged and dumped a spoonful of black caviar onto a paper-thin blini. “My fault. I failed in my duty to defend you from aggravating noblewomen.” He rolled the blini around the caviar and held it out to Wolfe.

It was a peace offering, and Wolfe took it. Being angry with Nic took too much energy, and this mission was exhausting enough as it was. “Ah, yes, the most essential of your duties,” he said and took a tentative bite. An interesting texture paired with an unremarkable flavor, certainly not worth the price the Novikovs must have paid for it. “Passable,” he pronounced. “You’ll like it.”

“So much for the romance of feeding you delicacies,” Nic said with a laugh. He sampled the caviar straight from the mother of pearl spoon, looking reasonably content with it.

“If you’re trying to seduce me, I’ll take more vodka.” Wolfe might have poured it himself, but the bottle was at the other end of the table, entirely too far away.

Nic’s brow furrowed, but he opened the bottle and poured another two shots, saying, “Wouldn’t be right to have caviar without vodka, would it?”

“Indeed,” Wolfe said, offering his partner a smile as he reached for his glass. “What are we drinking to this time?” 

“To foolish nobles who think they can sway you with luxuries,” Nic said, returning the smile.

Whatever irritation lingered in Wolfe’s heart, the vodka burned it away. The next bite of caviar, eaten straight from the spoon like Nic, tasted richer, more complex with his palate cleansed, but the pies were better still. A pleasant haze of alcohol had fallen over Wolfe by the time he finished eating, making the room’s gilded decorations seem to glow.

Nic’s hand came to rest at the small of Wolfe’s back, warm as an ember from the roaring fire. “I thought we might have a bath before bed. Wash off the dust of the road.”

Looking at Nic was like gazing upon the face of Apollo or Eros, impossibly alluring. Wolfe drank it in, basked in the radiance while his tired mind weighed the merits of hot perfumed water and warm soft furs. “Yes,” he said, “A bath. A bath sounds lovely. We should see what manner of absurd soaps they’ve provided us with. Can they make soap with gold?” The question seemed oddly interesting. He ought to know enough of chemistry to answer it, but it eluded him.

“I don’t know about that.” Nic stood and offered his hand. “But I did see quite a selection of oils on the shelf. Lot of things we could do with those.”

Now that was a fascinating thought. More physics than chemistry. Oils. Wet skin. So very many possibilities in that. “We should experiment rigorously, then,” he said, and allowed Nic to pull him to his feet.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuing with my horribly irregular update schedule.

EPHEMERA

**A message from Baronessa Tanya Novikov to Jie Chang. Flagged for further analysis.**

_ In regards to your question about the wedding, I have no idea how to decide which of my friends to cut from the guest list. Are you sure I can’t invite them all? I know between our families there are already so many people coming, but if there’s any possibility we might add a few more, I would be ever so grateful. Twenty-two more isn’t so very many, is it? Knowing Grandmother, she probably already gave you a hundred names. _

_ Anyway, these are people you’ll like. My one friend has a hobby of decorating rooms, and I’m sure you’ll want to hear all of her ideas for when you move in. Andrei’s suite is dreadfully dull, but my friend’s chambers are the most gorgeous I’ve ever seen. She did them in red, very bold, but tasteful. I also have a friend who studies Chinese philosophy. I’m sure you’d enjoy talking to her. You’re a Taoist, aren’t you? And we’re all excellent dancers, of course, and fashionable. You’ll want some fashionable young people there to balance out all of Father’s and Grandfather’s stuffy old friends. _

_ Anyway, please do let me know how many of them we can have on the list. Maybe bump a few of Grandmother’s off? _

**A note added to the end, addressed to the Artifex Magnus.**

_ Analysis suggests use of code in this message. Records show you have Scholar Wolfe assigned to investigate one of the parties involved. Shall we forward this to him? _

**A note added by the Artifex Magnus.**

_ No. Give it to Lingua for review and have them send the report to me. Wolfe can do his own work.  _

* * *

Wolfe woke in the dark to a splitting headache and an empty bed. He had the covers drawn up tight around him, but the fire burned low enough that his nose remained cold. Squinting in the dark, he read the time on the gaudy clock that rested on the mantelpiece. Five o’clock. Too damned early to be up, but too late to go back to sleep.

He dragged himself out of bed, wrapped in the thickest of the fur blankets, and found Nic at the window in the sitting room. No blankets for Nic, just his dress uniform, inky black with shining gold trim. There would be woolen underlayers, Wolfe knew, but he couldn’t shake the impression that Nic was dressed inadequately for the climate. Even his head seemed underdressed for the weather, beard freshly shaved away and glossy black hair cropped much too short to offer any warmth.

For himself, Wolfe was taking full advantage of the more relaxed grooming standards enjoyed by Scholars. He had every intention of keeping his long hair loose for the duration of the mission, and he wouldn’t be shaving what little beard he had managed to grow in the days before departure. In this climate, every extra layer of warmth was worth having.

Beyond the glass, the world was still and dark, the walls of the fortress and the looming mountains beyond them looking much the same. Only a few flurries of snow drifted down now, green shimmers catching the light of the glows, as likely blown from the rooftops as fallen from the sky. The glows on the grounds still shone, pools of weak light making a pitiful attempt to drive back the thick predawn darkness. No sign yet of sunrise, but there wouldn’t be from their west-facing window at so early an hour.

“You’re up,” Wolfe muttered, wrapping an arm around his lover and drawing him into the warmth of the blanket. Awkward, with Nic as tall as he was, but well worth the added warmth of his lover's body and the pleasing cedar aroma of his shaving soap, so strong in the morning. “Why are you up?”

Nic’s arm came to rest around Wolfe’s back. “Morning reports,” he said. “News came from the Serapeum that they’re closing down the streets in Khabarovsk because of the snow and the cold. Lieutenant Ivanov talked the Novikov guards into letting his squad up on the walls, and they saw drifts high enough that it’s going to take some digging to get us out of the gates. Even then, Private Ling says the transports won’t start in this cold. Looks like we’re going to be here a few days.”

With a groan, Wolfe rested his forehead against his partner. “We have Translation tags.” 

Not that he wanted to use them. He’d only had to do it once, and that had been more than enough for a lifetime. The pain of Translation by tag was terrible on its own, and the mere thought of the stacks of reports he would have to file was like a spike driven in by the hammer of his headache. He didn’t even want to think of the lectures the Artifex Magnus would subject him to or the Archivist’s quieter disappointment.

“I’d rather walk,” Nic said, echoing Wolfe’s thoughts.

“It’s an option worth considering.” Wolfe paused, sniffing the air. Beneath the cedar soap smell, there was another, one that made his mouth water. “Is there coffee?”

Nic inclined his head toward the sideboard, where an insulated flask had been added to the collection of jars and bottles. “Lieutenant Vickers brought it with the reports. I saved you half.”

“You are the finest of men and I will never deserve you,” Wolfe said, and stood on his toes to kiss Nic’s cheek. He ducked out of the shelter of the blanket only long enough to retrieve the coffee. Settling back under Nic’s arm, he uncapped the flask and took a long drink. Bitter and black, the coffee seared its way down to his stomach with the promise of alertness to come.

The quiet of the morning settled over them as Wolfe slowly sipped the coffee and waited for the throbbing of his headache to ease. All was still beyond the window save for the pale twinkle of drifting snowflakes. Within, the only movement was the slow rhythm of breath, each exhalation fogging the window in overlapping clouds. Wolfe leaned his head against his lover’s shoulder and Nic tipped his head to rest against Wolfe’s. There was no need to speak in these rare moments of peace.

With a pang of a feeling he was not yet awake enough to name, it occurred to Wolfe that these moments of peace need not be so rare. The thought of spending every morning in Nic’s presence had never seemed so tempting as it did now, wrapped as he was in Nic’s warmth in the frozen quiet of the predawn darkness.

_ It wouldn’t always be like this. _ Even half awake, he knew that. There would be the mundane bustle of work, fights to wear on both their patience. Odds were that their schedules wouldn’t even align all that often. It was pure romantic foolishness to even consider it, and Wolfe took a deeper drink in vain effort to drive the idiocy off. He certainly wasn’t going to reopen that line of conversation now, when he was hung over, half conscious, and pleasantly sore from Nic’s very  physical apology the night before.

No, it was a matter best left alone. They were happy now, as things were. Happier than Wolfe had ever dreamed of being. There was no reason at all to disturb that.

The pounding of a fist on the door so startled Wolfe that he nearly choked on his coffee.

Nic gave him a hearty slap on the back and a knowing smile before shrugging off the blanket and going to the door.

Pulling the blanket tighter around himself, Wolfe kept his eyes on the shadowed snowdrifts outside, so he heard rather than saw the creak of hinges, the drag of the heavy wooden door over carpet, and the light scuffle of feet.

A deep-voiced guard cleared their throat. “She says she has a message for Scholar Wolfe from Baronessa Karina Novikov, sir.”

Reluctantly, Wolfe turned to see a scrawny girl in servants’ dress whose hands shook as she looked up at the admittedly intimidating figure of Niccolo Santi in full dress uniform. The girl looked to be of mixed Russian and Chinese heritage, not uncommon so close to the border, and scarcely old enough to be employed anywhere outside a classroom. Not that a servant of a household like this one was likely to have ever set foot in a classroom. The Library might offer education to all, but to offer a gift was not the same as to ensure it was received.

“Well, go on then,” Wolfe said, softening his expression as he faced the girl. Noting the way her brows drew together in thought, he switched from Greek to Russian. “What’s your message?”

The servant seemed to marshal her courage, standing straighter to say, “Esteemed Scholar, the Baronessa Karina Novikov would like to extend the invitation to join her for breakfast in her chambers.” Though she had clearly practiced the line, nerves blurred the words.

The only thing Wolfe wanted to do less than take his breakfast with one of the Novikovs was walk out into the frigid snow, but he kept that to himself. “At what time?” he asked.

“On the hour, sir. If that would be acceptable.” The girl shifted from one foot to the other, looking at Wolfe expectantly.

Acceptable was not a word Wolfe would use to describe a predawn breakfast, but through the pounding of his headache, he had enough presence of thought to grasp the irregularity of the whole thing.

What _was_ this Russian noblewoman doing up so early, anyway?

He exchanged a look with Nic over the girl’s head, and Nic gave a slight nod. But of course Nic would agree. It was like him to focus on the mission, and there was no question that they needed to interview the baronessa.

Might as well get it over with, then.

“Give the baronessa my thanks for the invitation,” Wolfe said, and left Nic and the guards to get directions to the baronessa’s rooms out of the servant girl while he went in search of warm clothes and a pain pill. This investigation was headache enough without the throbbing of his hangover.


End file.
